


O Negative

by glycerineclown



Category: Looking (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Car Accidents, Happy Ending, Hospitals, M/M, Meeting the Parents, please read the warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 07:38:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2804705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glycerineclown/pseuds/glycerineclown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Patrick’s not going to die. Let’s get that out of the way early. He just got hit by a car.</i>
</p><p>(Post-S1 Finale, in which Richie meets Dana Murray and nothing really bad happens.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	O Negative

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings** Blood, head injury, broken bones as a result of a hit-and-run. Minor discussion of a panic attack. Hospitals. Anal, although that's more of an incentive.
> 
> Thanks so much to **rockinhamburger** and **aimmyarrowshigh** for the edits!

Patrick doesn’t have a car. He doesn’t have to—the public transportation in San Francisco isn’t abysmal and he lives close enough to everything he needs. If there’s an issue, he borrows Dom’s Volvo or calls Uber.

Richie doesn’t have one either.

There’s blood on Richie’s shirt. He doesn’t know where his hat is.

It doesn’t matter.

He’s in the back of an ambulance. He can’t have a panic attack right now—he can’t let the television fuzz take over his vision. He’s not the one who needs help. Patrick’s on a stretcher, and EMTs are prodding at his body. Patrick’s not moving.

Patrick’s not going to die. Let’s get that out of the way early.

He just got hit by a car.

There’s just blood all over Richie’s hands, but it’ll be fine.

He’s holding Patrick’s iPhone. He should probably call someone. He’ll wait until they get to the hospital.

White male, 29 years old. Head trauma.

Patrick’s not moving.

“C’mon, Pato.”

 

Somebody in a green pickup turned right on red while they were crossing the street.

They hadn’t stopped for the light, either. He hadn’t gotten the plates. That was a little after 11 p.m.—it’s 12:30 and he’s in a plastic chair. It smells like a hospital. Because it is—a hospital. They ask him to explain in as much detail as he can, what position Patrick’s body was in when he was hit, how his body landed on the ground. How much time elapsed between the collision and the arrival of the ambulance. Was he responsive—no. Was he breathing—yes, thank God. Was he drunk—he had a beer with dinner, but that’s all. Was he on any narcotics. Diabetes. Athsma. Does he have an insurance card.

His emotional state. His marital status.

Richie’s still holding Patrick’s iPhone, and now his wallet too. He knows the four-digit passcode.

In Patrick’s contacts, he selects Meghan Murray’s number first, because he knows she lives in California. Her phone goes to voicemail, so he leaves a message.

“Hi, this is Richie, uh, I’m Patrick’s boyfriend—he just got hit by a car when we were crossing the street, and we’re at San Francisco General. I thought, I thought I would let you know. I’m gonna call your parents too, I have Pato’s phone here. Um. Call me back.”

Patrick’s phone has 11% battery life left. He writes down Meghan’s number, as well as a number labeled “Home,” which has an area code he can only assume is in Colorado, and “Mom Cell.”

He calls Meghan again and leaves his own cell number since “Patrick’s phone is going to die,” and winces at the choice of words. Richie has Doris’ number in his own phone, for some reason—he’ll call her and she can tell Dom and Agustin and whoever else.

It’s probably three in the morning in Denver, and probably a landline, so of course it gets picked up. Richie didn’t think his first time talking to Patrick’s mother would be like this. He wipes his hand on his jeans. He couldn’t get all the blood off of his skin in the restroom.

“This is Richie, Patrick’s boyfriend, sorry about the hour,” he says, scrunching his eyes shut, his hand in his hair.

He can hear her ragged gasp across the line. “What happened?”

He tells her. She demands to talk to a nurse. They haven’t told him anything yet. She clears her throat, says she’ll be on the first flight out that she can find, and thanks him.

 

It turns out that Doris _works_ at San Francisco General. Richie looks up when her white shoes come squeaking down the hallway.

“Wow, Richie—I was just on my break. Got your voicemail.” He stands, and she throws her arms around him. “Are you okay? What the hell happened?”

“We were crossing the street, some asshole just came out of nowhere. Patrick rolled over the hood. I—there’s been no word yet.”

She sighs heavily, and looks down the hallway. “I’ll see what I can find out for you, ‘kay?”

His body sags. “Thanks. That would be—that would be great.”

“All right, honey,” she says, squeezing his arm. “Do you need me to call anybody?”

Richie shakes his head, a little dumbly. “No, I’m taking care of it.”

She kisses his cheek and disappears down the hall. He keeps waiting, and spends $1.50 on some shitty coffee.

 

Richie’s blood type is O Negative. Universal donor. The hospital wouldn’t take his blood even if they needed it, though, because he’s had a sexual relationship with someone with HIV.

It doesn’t matter if he took Truvada once daily or not.

Richie calls Patrick’s mother again after a doctor finally tells him that they’ve done a CT scan and stabilized Patrick, but they’re not sure yet whether the damage to his skull will be substantial enough to impair his memory or anything else.

Patrick’s leg is broken in two places, a few inches above the knee. They’ll have to operate.

Richie sees a sign pointing toward the hospital’s chapel, and goes inside to pray.

He hasn’t been to a non-holiday church service in years—after he grew up, it started feeling too much like a social event. And a political one.

The place is empty. Clean. There aren’t any candles there for him to light.

 

Meghan calls back, frantic. She and her new husband are on their honeymoon—because of their work schedules, they couldn’t both get away to Hawaii for a week until a couple of months after the wedding.

Dom and Agustin show up a little after 8 a.m. They get breakfast with Richie in the hospital cafeteria, and Doris stops by their table for a few minutes. The eggs are powdered. Richie isn’t really hungry anyway.

Dana Murray lands at SFO after noon and calls from a taxi on her way to the hospital.

It’s all kind of a blur.

He’s going to have to call Patrick’s office. Oh, shit— _Kevin_.

He calls Owen, that straight guy on Patrick’s team at work, to relay the news. He doesn’t have time to deal with Kevin.

 

He goes down to the lobby to meet Mrs. Murray. He feels too burnt out to psych himself up about it, but he does splash some water on his face first. There’s no way that she’s _less_ WASP-y than her son. He’ll have to be on his best behavior.

“So you’re Richie,” she says, shaking his hand.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Patrick’s told me about you.” She looks him up and down quickly, not so much judging, just... assessing. “Have you been here all night?”

He nods, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“Go home, Richard, take a shower. I can take it from here.”

She’s got a harried look about her and has every right to, but it still stings him a little. He’s been here for thirteen hours. He’s been up for thirty-one. He’s been fucking compartmentalizing. He’s not going to just step aside.

He needs to push back. He just has to, just a little. He squares himself. “It’s Ricardo, actually.”

“Oh. Well, Ricardo, as I said.”

Richie shakes his head. “With all due respect, ma’am, I’m going to be here when he wakes up.”

She sighs. “You’ve got my son’s blood all over you.”

He looks down. “Oh.”

 

Richie goes home. Soaks his shirt in the sink and scrubs the blood off of himself in the shower. Puts on clean clothes. Packs a bag with a pair of sweats and a coral v-neck of Patrick’s that had been covered in _leche_ before he washed it—the only thing Patrick ever left behind at his place.

He packs a hoodie for himself. His phone charger. A toothbrush.

He almost calls the barber shop, but then he remembers that it’s a Sunday. He has appointments set up for Monday, though, and then he’s supposed to work the door at Esta Noche after 8:30.

Richie looks at his bed, groans, and faceplants into it for a good four hours.

He wakes up when Mrs. Murray calls. They’re letting her see Patrick—she’s put his name on the visitors list.

 

When he gets back to the hospital, Patrick’s ruined clothes are in a plastic bag. The _escapulario_ is in it too, with the cord cut. He can’t figure out what that juju means—if it saved his life or threatened it. He didn’t even know that Patrick had been wearing it.

He hears the wet crunch of Patrick’s body in his head again, sees the way he had spun over the hood of the truck and was tossed into the gutter.

Richie wishes it had been him, and wipes his cheeks with his fingers.

The nurses expect Patrick to wake up in a few hours.

Richie sits in a chair at his bedside and clutches the little gold Mary and Jesus around his neck. There’s a white gauze bandage around Patrick’s head, and a cast on his left leg, but it’s covered in a blanket. He’s hooked up to an IV. Road rash down the side of his face.

“Oh, shit, Patrick.”

Not knowing any of the answers had helped him stay calm before. He doesn’t realize he’s still crying until Mrs. Murray shushes him and slips her hand into his.

“Let’s go get some dinner.”

 

Mrs. Murray has clearly not ridden on public transportation in years. She hails a cab.

They go to a diner. He’s sure they look strange, sitting across from one another. He orders a Philly cheesesteak sandwich with au jus and Patrick’s mother gets a Buffalo chicken salad with dressing on the side.

She asks him about his family and his job. He tells her a funny story involving his nephews, a volcano science project, and a wild turkey.

He asks her about Denver and what Patrick was like as a kid, and then remembers that they’re not very close anymore. Somehow the distance is obvious to him in the way she speaks. Everything she talks about happened in a different decade.

Back home, they call him Patty, just like his friends do.

You can learn a lot about a person in thirty minutes.

She reaches into her bag again after insisting on covering the check, and passes him part of an oatmeal cookie. “Dessert.”

He looks at the green label and raises his eyebrows at her.

“Hush now and eat it. Patrick will get through this.”

 

“I keep thinking he’s gonna wake up and not know who I am,” Richie says, as they’re walking back to the hospital. The cab hadn’t taken them far. “Maybe I just watched too much _E.R._ as a kid, but.”

Mrs. Murray sighs, her hands deep in the pockets of her coat. “Hypotheticals won’t get you anywhere.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

She stops short, and he looks at her. “Sometimes my son runs away from things that are good for him, because of what he thinks I would say.” She angles her face at Richie like this is crucial. “He doesn’t know me as well as he thinks he does.”

Richie looks at her, confused. “What do you mean?”

“I like you. He didn’t think I would. You can tell him that when he wakes up.”

 

Twenty-seven hours after a girl on the sidewalk called 9-1-1, Patrick opens his eyes. He’s in a hospital. He’s got an IV going into his hand. His leg hurts.

His mother is asleep in a chair across the room—and Richie is sleeping hunched over folded arms next to Patrick’s lap.

“Richie?”

His eyes burst open, and he smiles wide. “Whoa, hey, Pato.”

“Hi.”

Adjusting his shoulders, Patrick winces a little and tries to sit up, but Richie stops him, wakes Mrs. Murray, and goes to get a nurse. Patrick closes his eyes again until Richie and the nurse come back.

While the nurse putters around checking things and asking Patrick questions, his mother holds his hand.

“Can I have some water?” he croaks.

“Not yet, baby,” the nurse says. “You can suck on some ice if you’d like.”

Patrick turns to Richie, clearing his throat. “What time—how long have I been here?”

Richie looks at the clock on the wall. “It’s almost four in the morning Monday, you’ve been here since Saturday night. We got curry at Manora’s, and you—you got hit by a truck crossing the street.”

“Manora’s.” Patrick doesn’t know what part of that to address first. And they were sleeping, so it’s probably the middle of the night. And his mom is here. “Oh, my God. Have you been here this whole—you called my mom?” Patrick looks between the two of them.

“Yeah, I did,” Richie says, nodding.

“Oh, my God. Oh, wow. I’m sorry you had to do that by yourself.”

“It’s okay. It’s no problem.”

“What? Fuck, Richie—” Patrick sighs and pulls Richie towards him by his shirt.

He cracks another grin, rising from his chair, leaning over Patrick, kissing the fingers that reach up to his cheek. He shrugs a little. “What else was I supposed to do, Pato?”

“You know I love you, right? I’m such an _idiot_ ,” Patrick says. “Not about—I know we’re going slow, working on our shit, but I need you to know how much I want this, Richie. I’ve never been so serious about fucking _anything_. I wanna prove it to you, that I’m ready. I wanna be your _novio_. Please. I—I turned everything you said over and over in my head—I had a raging fight with Agustin, which hasn’t happened in _years_ , I told Kevin to stay away—”

“You’ve already given me this speech,” Richie says, lifting his hand to brush the backs of his fingers over Patrick’s cheek. “Maybe it’s good you don’t remember. And I’ve... _kinda_ already been telling everyone you’re _mi novio_. At least, since this happened.”

“You have?”

Richie nods. “Sorry. I love you too, Pato. Couldn’t say I was just a friend. It felt like lying.”

 

The sweatpants Richie brought won’t fit around Patrick’s cast. He pulls them up one leg for the warmth, though, and Patrick smiles at the t-shirt, and then at Richie, blushing.

“Thanks. I wondered where this ended up.” Then he frowns. “Hey, don’t you have work today?”

Richie nods. “I’ve got some appointments later. I would’ve canceled them already if you hadn’t woken up.”

“It’s, what, 6 a.m.? You should go, babe, get out of here.”

One side of Richie’s mouth perks up. “And don’t let the door hit my ass on the way out, huh?”

Patrick laughs, and bites his lip like he can get anything he wants. “Bring me food when you come back?”

“You’re lucky you’re so cute, _cariño_. Whatchu hungry for?”

 

When they’ve got the room to themselves, Mrs. Murray hovers over her son, adjusting his hospital gown and pulling his fingers away from the bandage on his head.

“Richie and I got to know each other,” she tells him.

Patrick sighs. “I’m sorry I couldn’t have introduced you myself, I just—”

“Now, hold on, Patrick.”

“But what do you think of him?” he asks, his eyes going wide like they do when anything remotely worrisome happens.

She smiles a little. “I can see why you like him. He’s funny.”

“Uh-huh.” Patrick makes the _hurry it along_ hand motion with the one that doesn’t have an IV.

“He impressed me. He was... he was here. Present. Loyal to a fault. I had to send him home to sleep, he—God, Patrick, he still had your blood all over him when I got here from Colorado.”

Patrick’s face falls. “Oh, my God.”

“And _Catholic_ ,” she adds, and Patrick scoffs. “I just mean—I was surprised. You can be so judgmental about that kind of thing. You never did let me give you much in the way of spiritual guidance.”

There’s a loaded topic. “That’s because I—”

She puts her hand up, and he stops. “And he’s _very_ handsome.”

Patrick grins. “Isn’t he?”

His mother nods, her mouth pulling down mischievously.

 

Agustin has pulled some Sharpies out of his bag and is drawing dueling narwhals on Patrick’s cast when Richie gets back from his Monday hair appointments. Doris has left some hearts of her own. Kevin’s sent flowers, with a card signed by the team at Most Dangerous Games.

Richie is holding a bag of burgers from Patrick’s favorite dive, and the smell almost overpowers the sour disinfectant that the hospital is cloaked in. Patrick makes impatient grabby hands and Richie takes his time unpacking their dinner, offering Mrs. Murray a cheeseburger, which she happily tucks into. He doesn’t know why he expected her to politely decline it. He got a turkey wrap too, just in case.

Agustin is making a face like he expected the same, and is now a fourth wheel without food.

He’s a vegetarian anyway. He goes home.

Patrick unwraps his cheeseburger and groans through the first bite. “Uh mugod,” he says, and swallows. “This is the fucking best burger I’ve ever had.”

Mrs. Murray looks like she wants to say, “Language,” but she allows it.

Patrick’s sucking the salt and special sauce off his fingers. He looks up to wink at Richie.

They’re alive.

 

Richie pushes Patrick’s wheelchair when they discharge him from the hospital two days later.

“I hope they didn’t have to shave too much of your head,” Patrick’s mother says, petting her son’s shoulder. “It’ll be a pain to grow back.”

“Don’t worry, Mom, I’ve got my own private hairstylist,” Patrick says, and cranes his neck as much as he can to look up at Richie, but makes a wincing face like he regrets it.

“Look straight ahead,” Richie says with a smile, and fights the urge to adjust Patrick like he was already in his salon chair. “We’ll clean you up good, boy, don’t you worry.”

Mrs. Murray signs all the paperwork and collects all the home care and rehabilitation pamphlets, and Dom shows up in his car like a valet service to take them home. Richie and Dom end up having to carry Patrick up the stairs to his apartment while Mrs. Murray opens doors.

She stays the night, and catches a flight back to Colorado the next morning.

 

“Now, you are not to move from this couch while I’m gone,” Richie says, handing him an Xbox controller, all the TV remotes, and his laptop. Patrick’s not allowed to be on his feet for a while—and he’ll be four months in the cast, probably. “If you’re very good, I’ll make you sopapillas later.”

Patrick smiles at Richie adoringly as he adjusts the pillows. “Promise?”

“Mmhmm.”

Richie goes back to his apartment and packs up enough stuff to last him the next few days at Patrick’s—he needs taking care of. Leaves a note for his landlord. Pays a few bills.

When he gets back, Richie swings his duffel bag to the floor and looks around, scratching the back of his head.

It’s a lot more space than he’s used to.

They get stoned and watch _The Goonies_ in bed on Patrick’s laptop that night. Richie rolls Patrick’s nipple between his fingers when Sean Astin gets kissed. He supposes he must have felt this way about _Mala Noche_ when he was fifteen. They watch that too.

Stoned Patrick is much more relaxed in conversation than sober or drunk Patrick, as Richie figures out, and they spend a lot of time talking in the dark. Touching each other. Necking.

 

Richie takes a couple of eggs from Patrick's fridge and goes to see his Señora.

After he strips, he watches her wash the eggs in salt water and lemon. He’s never been so nervous to see her before. She picks up on it immediately, and tuts at him.

He lies down, closing his eyes when she begins rubbing one of the eggs over his face. _You’re so tense, mijo,_ she says softly. _Breathe with me._

The eggs go down each of his arms and over his torso. Down his legs to his feet.

His heartbeat is slow when she’s done.

She breaks the eggs into a bowl of water, and he sits up. She hums at the yolks and peers up at him. _I’ve never seen you unload so much, mijo. Come, tell Señora about it._

She draws a nine-card relationship spread after that, leaving them facedown until he asks his questions.

He sighs and tells her the story. Why he broke up with Patrick. What happened on their date, and what happened after. The _escapulario_. Meeting Patrick’s mother. Getting back together. Socioeconomics. Emotional risks.

She nods, and turns over the first card.

 

Dom comes over with a three-foot grabber, to Patrick’s utter _delight_. He brandishes the grabber and cackles, rolling across the kitchen in his desk chair and clicking the pincers at them.

Richie groans. “Don’t I get my ass pinched enough around here?”

“You should be thanking me!” Dom says. “Honestly.”

Patrick runs into Richie’s shin with his cast and almost falls out of the chair laughing as he apologizes profusely and leans down to kiss it better.

Richie googles “how to shower with a cast on one leg” and goes to the drugstore to get one of those glorified plastic bags that seal around casted limbs, and a rubber mat for the bottom of the tub, and a shower cap.

The way Patrick laughs and holds onto Richie in the shower reminds him of watching Patrick dance on their first date-date.

Somehow that turns into Richie soaping Patrick’s crack and Patrick stroking them both off, and hickies on chests, and then Patrick is too tired and sore to do anything but go to bed, and Richie feels bad that it even went that far. Richie helps him into boxers and some baggy plaid pajama pants with a toothbrush sticking out of his mouth, and then replaces the bandage for Patrick’s head.

The incision’s several inches long and shaped like a big C.

 

Patrick pulls on Richie’s cock the next morning and groans a little. Richie grumbles back and opens his eyes, humming inquisitively.

“I know our options are gonna be pretty limited for a while, but... I bet you could ride me.”

Richie smiles lazily into his pillow. “I was thinkin’ ‘bout that too.”

They prop Patrick up against the headboard, and support his leg with pillows. Patrick takes pain meds, and Richie covers the cast with a folded blanket, since it’s pretty rough to the touch.

For a few minutes they just make out while Patrick stretches him—Patrick loves watching Richie’s eyes go hazy and out-of-focus when he massages his prostate. And the desperation that follows is a huge ego boost.

Richie rolls on the condom and sinks down, and doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until he’s gasping into Patrick’s collarbone. He rocks there, full, and Patrick’s eyes close. His fingertips rake down Richie’s back as he finally lifts up and swings forward on his way back down.

“Please consult a doctor to see if you’re healthy enough for sexual activity,” Patrick says, in a manly Cialis voice, and Richie laughs, carding his fingers into the safe part of Patrick’s hair as he grinds on his cock.

“You mean—you’re not a doctor?” He gasps a little, and even he doesn’t know if it’s for show.

“Oh, no,” Patrick says, and his hands fall down to Richie’s hips. “You caught me.”

“I can’t believe you, Pato,” he says, pulling up and slamming on the downstroke, punching a moan out of Patrick and covering it with a kiss.

“Unforgiveable,” Patrick mutters, and wraps his hand around Richie’s dick.

Richie hums and tips Patrick’s head back to latch onto the skin under his jaw. It’ll bruise and Patrick doesn’t give a shit—Richie’s pulling on his nipples and he’s letting out noises he’d be embarrassed to name.

Fucking into Patrick’s hand changes the angle just right, and Patrick reaches behind Richie with his other hand to stroke at where they intersect, sliding his fingertips through the lube.

“Oh, fuck.”

That’s it. Richie grunts, spilling over Patrick’s stomach, his thighs burning. He wraps his arms around Patrick’s neck and tucks his face there, panting as he comes down.

“Fuckin’ love your dick,” he rasps after a minute, and clenches his muscles, rising again. “C’mon, Pato.”

 

“My mom liked you.”

“You say that like you’re surprised. Everyone likes me.”

 

# # #

 

Patrick’s fridge is stocked with pineapple Jarritos, and there’s a bass next to the bed. An _At The Drive-In_ poster is hanging over Agustin’s parting gift. There are graphic novels that Patrick hasn’t read on his bookshelf.

He likes it. He’s getting the cast off in a few days, and a membership to the nearest pool so he can do exercises. He’s looking forward to a wider variety of sex positions. There’s a titanium rod holding his femur together and Richie keeps teasing him about _detectores de metales_. And getting plowed into.

Patrick can get around on crutches pretty well, but he uses those mostly for outside. They’re wrapped in cotton at the top so they don’t rub his armpits raw. He can stand in the kitchen and cook if he pulls a chair around to hold onto the back of. He can get up and down the stairs on his ass.

The bandage on his head is long gone. He should be able to brush his hair over the scar when it grows out a little more. He’s not sure how he feels about the way it looks. Richie wants to give him an undercut, but Patrick doesn’t think he’s hip enough for one.

Richie has settled in well. It’s a little farther on the bus for him to get to work, but he likes living with someone who can cook. He has a few friends over for a jam session and Patrick makes them all his ultimate mac n’ cheese. They play some kind of rootsy funk around the coffee table, add pepper to the food, and decide that he can stay.

Patrick’s working part-time, from home. He doesn’t like being a shut-in. He’s running out of shows to watch on Netflix.

But there’s a man who he loves taking up space in his apartment. He can deal with anything.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come be in love with Richie with me on [tumblr](http://glycerineclown.tumblr.com)!


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